they come in handfuls,
floating through, to ground.
pink floaters like
boaters sailing on winds….. whispering:
she winds her hands and arms
into snaking eights
snsnsnaking sleaking shifting
as if to drag up the wind and make it sing….
apple blossoms never find their way…..
never, ever, find their way back home………
not when the insistent breath of life
has carried them off and
folded up their wings……….
PASSION was in the trees today….
how they crashed and bashed around
being shaken by high winds….
the winds of focus and intent,
unapologetic for raping branches and twigs,
leaving them quite bare and staccato like.
Golden, bronzed leaves came
flying horizontally through the air
like flat stones skipping on the tide,
as folk stumbled in and out of parked cars
like Lowery’s stickmen,
facelessly leaning into the wind.
I needed air….. I flung wide the windows
and let late Autumn blow its way through
and out, back up into the dappled sky…….
There is passion in my house tonight….
the wind came calling my name today
and has left his heart with me ………..